


Block Party

by JustLookFrightenedAndScuttle



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Bitty bakes a lot, But lots of fluff, Gen, Jack overthinks things, Pre-Slash, kids play street hockey, maybe a little anxiety, pre-zimbits - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-24
Updated: 2018-07-24
Packaged: 2019-06-15 09:40:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15410124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustLookFrightenedAndScuttle/pseuds/JustLookFrightenedAndScuttle
Summary: Jack is spending the summer in sleepy Samwell, down the block from his friend Shitty, in hopes of peace and obscurity. It seems to be working, until someone plans a block party.





	Block Party

**Author's Note:**

> This is not entirely based on a recent block party in my neighborhood.  
> Many thanks to [RabbitRunnah](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RabbitRunnah/pseuds/RabbitRunnah) for the beta!

Jack riffled through the mail, mostly advertising circulars. His bills went to his business manager, and no one wrote him letters. Well. No one wrote anyone letters anymore, probably.

He was about to dump the whole stack in the recycling bin when a flier printed on hot pink paper caught his eye.

“Hey, Neighbor! We just moved in last year, and we’d like to get to know more of you, so we’re planning a block party. Bring your chairs, libations, a main dish and sides to share, out in the middle of Pinetree Avenue on July 14. We’ll have grills available and a speaker, so bring something to cook and bring your own tunes. Looking for a few activities for kids -- otherwise we’ll wing it! We set up a Facebook group called ‘Party on Pinetree,’ so join that to get the latest scoop! See you there! Adam Birkholtz and Justin Oluransi (and Emmy, 8, and Samuel, 5. 125 Pinetree Ave.)”

Great. Just what Jack needed in his life this summer. A “get to know you” party with his neighbors.

He’d rented the small house at the (disappointing) end of the (disappointing) season because it wasn’t in Providence, wasn’t in Montreal, and most certainly wasn’t in a party city like Las Vegas.

Samwell was a quiet town, Shitty told him, and this was an even quieter street in a sleepy residential backwater neighborhood.

Jack should have known that Shitty’s judgment about what constituted “quiet” couldn’t be trusted. He could have rented a cottage up in Nova Scotia or something. Still could, if it came to that. But he didn’t want to be a hockey cliche. And he agreed with his therapist that it was better for him to at least see some people on a daily basis, even if it was just his trainer and the attendant who let him into the gym.

Of course Jack had seen more people than that. Sometimes he was home when groceries or meals were delivered, and he had at least seen some of his neighbors when he slipped out of the house for early runs or late afternoon walks to the park to take pictures of the wildlife, such as it was. A big blond man had waved to him when he drove by the other day. Come to think of it, that was probably Adam or Justin. Most likely Adam -- he looked more like a Birkholtz.

He could always ask Shitty or Lardo. Shitty knew everybody, and Lardo knew everything. At least everything important.

They’d bought their house on the corner of this block the first year Shitty was out of law school, when the houses here were more run down and resale values weren’t as good. Shitty liked it because he could afford it without asking his father for help; Lardo liked it because there was a second bedroom with big windows that got good afternoon light.

The block then had been an ethnic mix, with more old people than young families. The housing crisis had been good for it, though, at least in terms of real estate value, as families looked for more affordable old houses instead of building new, and now Shitty looked like a real estate genius. Lardo said she enjoyed hearing kids playing outside while she painted, but she missed the company of her former next-door neighbor, Mrs. Yashimora, who had reluctantly gone to live with her son and daughter-in-law a year and a half ago.

It was a stroke of luck, really that this house had become available for six months. The couple who owned it were moving to Japan for a work assignment, and didn’t want it to sit empty. When Jack moved in, he didn’t exactly love the decor -- way too fussy, too many different colors, and he either had to allow a service come in to water the plants or do it himself -- but no one here knew him, no one asked when he was going to retire, if his knee was still bothering him, did he think the Falcs had it in them to win one more Cup before … before he couldn’t play anymore.

He wasn’t there yet. He knew he had another good couple of years, maybe even three or four, if he worked hard on his training and followed his nutritionist’s advice assiduously. And of course he would. He’d outrun the party-boy rumors after bringing home the Stanley Cup the first year in Providence; now the main complaint PR had about him was that he didn’t have a fun side.

He put the flier in the recycling bin with the rest of the junk mail and pulled a dinner from the freezer.

*********************************************

Jack was just getting off the treadmill, ready to meet with Arden to get his next instructions, when his phone honked.

There was no one else in the private gym. Thank God for that. He really had to get Shitty to teach him to change the text tone back to something normal.

He tried the first time he heard it, and Shitty just laughed and said, “Come on, Jack, with all those pictures of geese you show Lardo? I figured you couldn’t get enough of them.”

Well, if Shitty wouldn’t help, he was sure someone in his agent’s office would. But this had to be corrected before training camp, or the guys would chirp (or honk) him to death.

The text was from Shitty.

_Jackie boy, you’ve been compromised._

What did that mean?

Jack called Shitty back.

“What does that mean?”

“It means that you are no longer flying under the radar. You’ve been made, my man. Your identity is no longer an enigma.”

Fuck.

“So someone knows who I am?”

“Not just someone,” Shitty said. “Holster. The loudest of the loudmouths, I say with with all possible affection.”

“Holster?”

“Adam Birkholtz. Said he saw you pull out of your driveway the other day. Wanted to know if I knew THE Jack Zimmermann was living among us.”

“Shit.”

“Don’t take my name in vain,” Shitty said. “He’s not a bad guy. But if I know him, I’m sure he’s mentioned it to his husband already -- they both played hockey in college -- and those two know everyone.”

“Fuck, Shitty, what am I going to do?” Jack looked around the gym like there would be hordes of paparazzi climbing in through the windows, even though it had been years since those vultures had paid any attention to him. After trailing after him season after season, they’d finally decided he was hopelessly boring.

Jack didn’t want to move. The house, with its colors and its plants, had grown on him. He liked the gym, and Arden, who kept in touch with the Falcs training staff to keep him going in the right direction, was great. 

“I don’t want people following me around asking questions,” he said. “Am I going to have to move?”

“Not if you don’t want to,” Shitty said. “I mean, we can come down pretty hard on anyone who invades your privacy. I already had a word with Holster about how you came here for peace and quiet. But, yeah, someone who sees you bringing in the mail might ask how it’s going, or if you like the weather lately. Not much I can do about that.”

Jack knew when he was being chirped.

“Fuck off,” he said. “I’ll see how it goes.”

*********************************************

In truth, it went surprisingly well. There was one sort-of-awkward interaction with Adam (“Call me Holster, dude. It’s a hockey nickname that stuck”) Birkholtz, who crossed the street when Jack was collecting his garbage bins to to return them to the garage.

“Hey, man,” Adam -- Holster -- said. “Shitty told me that you moved here because you wanted to be left alone. That’s cool. We’ll put the word out.”

Jack thought it would be better if no one mentioned his presence at all, but Holster said, “It might be a little late for that. I told my husband, and he might have mentioned it to Chow and Farmer -- the couple that lives on the corner? With the adorable baby? -- our kids play with their older kids. And if Chow knows, then so do Derek and Will, and, well, you know how things go. But don’t worry. Everyone will be cool.”

After that, Jack noticed a few people looking a little too long when he went for a run or took his camera out, but no one made a pest of themselves. After a week or so, even that seemed to die down, and Jack relaxed. 

At his weekly dinner with Shitty and Lardo, he announced, “I think I’m gonna stay for the rest of the summer. You were right -- it’s not so bad with people knowing who I am.”

“Excellent,” Shitty said. “Are you coming to the block party then?”

“Shits, I literally just said I wanted to stay because people are leaving me alone,” Jack said.

“Like one afternoon of human interaction would kill you?” Shitty asked. “Jackabelle, I know there’s a real boy in there. I know you moved here to get away from places where people follow you around, but I’d like to think it also had something to do with Lardo and me, and you wanting to spend some time with people who care about you. Would being nice to the neighbors for a day be so hard? If they promise not to tell anyone else.”

“I don’t know,” Jack said. “I’ve never been good at that. The worst part of my job is when we have to do meet-and-greets, you know?”

“And your job includes getting pasted against the glass by 220-pound defensemen,” Shitty said. “I know. But it’s a block party. You can just wander from one part of the block to another.”

Jack shrugged. “Maybe.”

“Come on, you don’t want people to think you’re too conceited to rub shoulders with the hoi polloi, do you?”

“They will think that, won’t they?” Jack said. “Maybe I can be busy that weekend. I can make a contribution or something, and make my apologies.”

“Can I make a suggestion?” Shitty asked.

“If I say no, will that stop you?”

“Maybe just go on the block party Facebook page, so you feel like you know people a little. Give it a week or so before you decide. You’ll still have a week until the party.”

“I -- uh, I don’t have a Facebook account,” Jack said. “When the Falcs said I had to do something, I did Instagram because it’s mostly photos.”

“And lovely photos of geese they are, too,” said Lardo, coming downstairs from her studio. “But you can make an account just for this. Delete it after the party if you want.”

By the end of the evening, Jack was “Jack on Pinetree.” His profile picture was an actual pine tree -- Shitty tried to use one of an automobile jack -- and he’d been added to the block party group.

He balked at making a post introducing himself, though. Instead, he ran through what the other people had to say.

Holster and his husband, Justin (“Ransom”) Oluransi led it off, posting a cute family picture with their two children playing croquet in their backyard. Then the Farmer-Chow family. It looked like all of them used the hyphenated last name, Jack noted, and they indeed had children about the same age as Ransom and Holster.

Shitty was all over the page, of course, with opinions on everything, and Lardo had volunteered to paint faces and supply sidewalk chalk for the kids.

Will Poindexter, who lived alone in a small house in the middle of the block, said he would be available for set up and cleanup. His picture showed a man with fiery red hair and an intense gaze. Derek Nurse, who lived next door to him in a slightly run-down cottage, said he would bring paper products and ice.

“Gotta chill,” he wrote, which, going by the reactions, half the neighbors found hilarious and the other half found annoying.

Alice Atley, one of the longer-term residents, wrote a more formal post. “There are so many new neighbors on the block. I’m looking forward to meeting as many of you as possible. I will bring one or two salads to pass, as I’m sure my tenant will have a monopoly on the dessert table.”

“Where does Alice Atley live?” Jack said. “She has a tenant?”

“That big house at the other end of the block,” Lardo said. “It has a tiny upstairs apartment. I didn’t know she rented it, though. Looks like there’s someone on the block newer than you.”

*********************************************

The block party Facebook thing turned out to be more entertaining than Jack would have thought. He checked it a couple of times a day, watching people try to one-up each other on the amount of beer they would bring, having ideas brought up and bounced out again.

He was pretty sure he knew who Alice Atley’s tenant was, based on a post that appeared the morning after Shitty helped Jack make his profile.

“Hey, y’all,” wrote somebody named Eric Bittle. “I am so excited to have people to bake for! I just moved here for a job and everyone in my office is on a diet, so I can’t do anything but sneak in a few treats every now and again. I learned to bake back in my MooMaw’s kitchen when I was still too small to see the countertop, and I can make, or at least figure out how to make, most things. So go right on ahead and post what your favorites are and if you have any food allergies in the comments. Looking forward to meeting everyone!”

The profile picture was a pie.

Jack closed the app and went to the gym, planning to tell Nate about this pusher of pies at his next check-in. How did these people survive?

The next day, there was a notification of a private message. It was from Adam.

“Hey, man, I think I know who you are, but my husband thinks you’re a troll because you have absolutely nothing posted on your wall. Can you prove you’re the Jack I think you are?”

Jack called Shitty.

“What am I supposed to do? Move a potted plant into the window or something like Deep Throat? I’m not gonna post a picture of myself.”

“You could just go talk to him,” Shitty said.

“You can go talk to him,” Jack said. “He’s your friend.”

“I could,” Shitty said. “But he asked you.”

“Fine,” Jack said.

It wasn’t hard to find Holster outside, Jack knew. He saw him that afternoon following along as his kids attempted to roller skate. Jack crossed the street to get his attention.

“I got your message,” Jack said. “That’s me on Facebook. I, uh, just don’t have much of a social media presence.”

“Keeping things locked down?” Holster said. “I guess it makes sense.”

“I do have Instagram,” Jack said.

“Really?” Holster said. “Why not link your accounts?”

When Jack just looked at him, Holster went on. “Never mind. Since it’s you, and you clearly live here, of course you can stay in the group.”

“It’s just for the summer,” Jack said. “I don’t really live here.”

“No worries,” Adam said. “As long as you’re living here on the day of the party, you’re good. You should RSVP, and sign up for whatever you want to bring.”

“About that -- I’m not sure if I’ll be able to make it,” Jack said. He paused to see if Holster was going to question him about what could possibly be more important than a block party in front of his temporary home, and was relieved when he didn’t. “I did want to contribute. Can I give you a donation?”

“No way, man,” Holster said. “In-kind donations only. We don’t want people asking what we did with their money or anything.”

“What do you still need?”

“I think we’re set on drinks and food,” Holster said. “That Bittle guy is planning like 10 desserts. But maybe more stuff for the kids? Something where they can run around, tire themselves out?”

“I’ll think about it,” Jack said.

*********************************************

He was still thinking about when he checked the Facebook page the next day.

Maybe someone would rent a bouncy house or something. Maybe he could rent a bouncy house. But when he was a kid, he hated bouncy houses. They were always hot, and they smelled weird, and the way the floor moved unpredictably made him queasy. 

What did he like to do when he was little?

He could treat everyone to non-fat frozen yogurt, which was at least marginally healthier than ice cream. But the Bittle guy really did seem like he had sweets covered. His last post listed three kinds of brownies (plain chocolate, with nuts, and with caramel), two kinds of cupcakes, four kinds of cookies (chocolate chip, oatmeal, snickerdoodles, and iced sugar cookies), and no less than seven kinds of pie (apple, blueberry, banana cream, peach, strawberry rhubarb, key lime, and pecan).

There were only, what, 16 houses on the block?

 _I think you may be over-planning,_ Jack commented on Bittle’s post. _People shouldn’t eat so much sugar. You should concentrate on more protein._

Later, when Jack checked again, his comment had several shocked faces next to it, and Bittle had replied, _If you want more protein, feel free to make something to contribute. My desserts will be freely available and delicious._

Jack thought for a moment before responding. His best course of action would probably be no response at all. Didn’t everyone say not to feed the trolls? He always thought trolls were the people who commented negatively on social media, but Holster said his husband thought Jack was a troll because he didn’t have enough on his page.

He decided to go Holster’s route, and send this Bittle guy a message instead of posting a public comment. He didn’t want to apologize exactly, but he wanted to tell the guy he meant no offense.

So he started with that.

 _I meant no offense. It just seems like the proportion of dessert food to healthier options will be way out of whack,_ Jack wrote. _People eat too much sugar and not enough protein. There will be lots of kids there and I think it would be a mistake to encourage poor nutritional choices._

Then he closed the app and called his business manager. “How much would it cost to get a couple of street hockey nets? And maybe 20 sticks and some pucks? Oh, and two sets of goalie pads, too?”

“You do know that you have a relationship with CCM, right? We could probably just ask them.”

“No,” Jack said. “Then they would want to use it for something. Tape the kids playing or something. It can’t be more than a thousand dollars, can it?”

“Wait, what kids?” Stacy asked. “Are you working with kids and didn’t tell me?”

“No, just some neighbor kids,” Jack said. “It’s really nothing. They’re having a block party and I wanted to provide something for them to do.”

He could hear Stacy tapping on her computer while she talked.

“Really, Jack? That’s adorable. If they don’t tape it, can I send someone out? We can use it for -- I don’t know. But I know the Falcs would love it. Let’s see … at retail, you’re looking at around $800, but we can probably get a significant discount even without letting them come out. Let me make some calls.”

Jack hung up and opened Facebook to message Holster again.

He was distracted by the number of new comments -- generally encouraging Bittle to stick to his plan, or to make even more desserts to stick it to “this Jack guy,” which was probably the nicest thing anyone called him.

He ignored them and messaged Holster.

_I’m still not sure if I’m can make it, but I can provide street hockey nets, goalie gear, and enough sticks and pucks for all the kids. Shitty said you and your husband played in college -- can you handle teaching them?_

Holster must have been online, because his response was almost immediate.

_Dude, that’s way too much! I was just hoping you’d spring for a bouncy house or something._

Jack shook his head and was about to close the app again when he got another message notification, this one from Eric Bittle.

 _Dear Jack,_ he wrote, _I don’t know you, but I think you need to be less obsessed with nutrition and let yourself live a little. What’s your favorite pie? I’ll be sure to make it for the block party. Because it is a party -- a special occasion! It demands more than bland chicken breast and vegetables. Eric Bittle_

Jack noticed he didn’t say anything about looking forward to meeting Jack. It didn’t matter.

 _I don’t really eat pie,_ he said. _And I probably won’t be there anyway._

Then he left his phone on the kitchen counter, took his camera and headed for the pond.

Holster’s husband was outside watching Emmy and Samuel pedal their bikes down the sidewalk when Jack went outside.

“Jack!” Ransom called to him. “Hey, man, Adam told me what you’re doing, and that’s great. We’ll make sure everyone knows how generous you were.”

Jack felt the blood drain from his face.

“Please don’t,” he said. “If anyone asks, say it was an anonymous donation. Really. Keep me out of it.”

“You sure, bro? ‘Cause the kids’ll have a blast.”

”Yeah, really,” Jack said. “I, um, don’t know if anyone said, but I’m trying to keep kind of a low profile this summer.”

Ransom looked at him curiously.

“Why? I mean, I know you play for the enemy and all, but you’d be a local hero.”

“I’m not a hero,” Jack said. “I just play hockey. And last season didn’t end so well.”

“Because you were playing hurt, dude,” Ransom said. “Sorry -- I’m a pediatric orthopedist. I pay attention to shit like that. Knee seems to be getting better, though.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Jack said. 

“Take it easy, bro,” Ransom said. “Seriously. Follow your physical therapist’s directions, yeah?”

“I am,” Jack said.

*********************************************

When Jack got back, he downloaded the pictures to his computer, then called his mother.

“Maman, how are you?” Jack said. “Will you and Papa be home this weekend?”

“If you need us -- Are you alright?”

“I’m fine, Maman, really. I was just thinking of making a quick visit,” Jack said. 

“Oh, in that case, next weekend would be better,” Alicia said. “Your father has a meeting in Toronto, and I was going to tag along. Would you care to join us?”

A meeting in Toronto prowbably meant something to do with the league.

“Not this time,” Jack said. 

“But come next weekend,” his mother urged. “It’s been ages since we’ve seen you.”

Jack thought about his other options. Tater was in Russia visiting his family this month. Most of his other teammates were busy too, or in Providence, where Jack had to contend with his own face on billboards. He’d figured that in tiny Samwell, without his image everywhere, he’d go unrecognized. Too bad he had hockey fans on his block.

Usually, he’d go to Shitty and Lardo if he wanted to get away, but he was already there. He’d met Shitty when he wandered into a gallery where Lardo was having a show his first week in Providence, and Shitty had embraced him and hung on like a terrier. It had been seven years, and Jack found that he relied on having a friend who wasn’t involved in hockey more than he ever expected.

But now Shitty was pushing him to at least make an appearance at the block party. Lardo was staying out of it -- or so she said -- but Jack got the feeling she agreed with Shitty. And Shitty and Lardo would both there. How bad could it be?

There was another notification from Bittle.

_You’re worried about the nutrition of people you’ve never met at a party you’re not going to? Well, bless your little busybody heart!_

*********************************************

The morning of the block party was a little wet, but it cleared up by 11. With festivities scheduled to start at three, there was plenty of time to set up.

Jack had his front window open a couple of inches to catch the breeze. If it helped him hear what was happening on the other side of the curtains, that was just a side benefit.

The redhead -- Will Poindexter -- was out building a structure out of PVC pipes that would spray mist on anyone who walked through. He also taped out a street hockey court.

“Hey, Holster, this is a lot of stuff,” Will said, hauling the nets to the ends of the courts. 

“I know, man,” Holster said.

“You and Ransom really put a lot into this,” Dex said. 

“Wasn’t us,” Holster said. “Anonymous donor.”

“To a block party?” Will asked.

“Weird, I know,” Holster said. “I’m gonna go check on the tables.”

Ransom was working with Derek Nurse to set up the area where people could deposit food to share. Nurse had filled several coolers with ice, and was debating -- with himself -- whether one large rectangular surface would be better, or if he should do a U-shape.

At first, Jack thought Ransom was taking the opposite side of whatever Nurse wanted to just to have fun with him. Then he realized that every time Ransom agreed, Nurse changed his mind. Jack shook his head and went to the kitchen to make himself an egg-white omelet for lunch. He was glad he’d said he wouldn’t be part of that fiasco. His neighbors thought he was away, so all he had to do was stay invisible. It would be easy. As long as he didn’t turn the lights on and off too much. A few lights going on and staying on an hour or two at a time would just look like they were on timers. But then he’d have to be careful not to walk between the lights and the windows.

Maybe he could just stay in the back of the house.

By the time Jack ate and washed and put away his dishes, the noise level out front had increased significantly. Neighbors had erected canopies on the patches of grass in front of their houses and dragged out more lawn chairs than there were people on the block. It looked like there was a stage at one end -- Jack had seen some messages about a talent show, and a garage band volunteering their services -- and there was a pen with chickens a little ways down. Must be the Edbergs, trying to get people to join them in their suburban farming adventures. He’d seen messages about that, too.

The food tables were filling up, and one whole table seemed to be nothing but desserts. Jack shook his head again. How much dessert did people need to have?

The hockey area was set up, but no one was using it yet. Instead, kids were parading through the mist tunnel in bikes and skateboards and scooters and on foot.

It was just 2:30. Maybe they’d start the hockey at three?

Jack sat at his computer to edit photos that he could post to Instagram in the coming week. He’d been told Instagram should be more in-the-moment, but Jack didn’t want his followers to think he was careless.

When he was done, it was definitely after three, but he didn’t hear any whistles or anything to indicate that a game had started. He peeked again.

Emmy was standing by the court, holding a stick uncertainly. Samuel was trying to get Holster’s attention, while Holster wandered up the street with a jug of bright blue liquid and stack of cups. Jack noted that it was only going to adults.

Ransom had joined some of the others -- mostly men -- behind the line of grills. Some of the neighbors were perusing the items under a sign that “Free Swap” and more adults were just sitting talking. The food table was mostly full, but at least half the desserts were gone.

A few more kids joined Emmy in picking up sticks, half-heartedly pushing pucks back and forth.

This would not do at all.

Jack groaned. He was going to have to go out there. But maybe, if he could just get the kids going, he could slip away again.

He went to change into his sneakers and shorts, and pulled a Falconers snapback on.

*********************************************

“There you go, Emmy, you’ve got it.” A small blond man was standing a few feet from Emmy, who now had her hockey stick in a firm grip and had just sent him a solid pass. He spoke with a drawl that Jack associated with the American south, not Massachusetts. “Now put your stick down and I’ll send it back to you.”

He did as he said, then turned to the boy beside him. 

“What’s your name? Brian?”

When the boy nodded, the man said, “Can I show you how to hold your stick, and then you can pass the puck with Emmy here?” 

When the boy nodded again, the man quickly showed him how to position his hands. In minutes, Brian and Emmy were playing catch with the puck and the man had turned to the next child; others were picking it up from watching and starting on their own.

Jack should have turned and gone in right away. This man, despite being maybe 5-foot-6 and from a part of the country where hockey wasn’t popular, clearly knew what he was doing. At least enough to get a group of 5- to 10-year-olds going in a game of street hockey.

But something about him -- the way he moved, maybe, light on his feet and graceful; the way he handled his stick, with precision and skill; the smile that looked like it was always about to turn into warm laughter; or the voice, excited and encouraging -- anyway, something about him drew Jack’s attention.

He must have stood watching for a beat too long because the man saw him looking.

“Hey, you in the yellow shoes,” he called, still friendly. “Do you know anything about hockey? We can divide these kids up and have a game.”

“I guess,” Jack said, glad that at least one of his neighbors didn’t know who he was. “Let’s get them all holding their sticks the right way first, eh?”

“That sounds like a good plan,” the man said. “My name’s Eric Bittle. What’s yours?”

Shit.

Eric Bittle, the dessert guy. The one Jack had insulted, kind of without meaning to. Now he couldn’t help but hear “Bless your busybody little heart” in Bittle’s southern accent. Who knew someone who made that much pie could be in such good shape? Because frankly, Bittle looked like he spent some time at the gym, too. Not really built, but clearly compact and strong. Jack was fucked. Could he get away with making up a name?

“Jack, you came out!” Why did Shitty have to choose now to notice him? "I knew you wouldn’t hide in your house all day. Did you try Bitty’s pie? It’s amazing.”

“Jack?” Bittle looked confused, then a little hurt. “The Jack who thinks I made too many things for the party? He’s a friend of yours?”

“Don’t worry about that, brah,” Shitty said. “He’ll get over it in his own time.”

“Let’s just play some hockey,” Jack said, knowing it came out sounding more brusque than he meant it to.

It took about 20 minutes for them to get the kids divided into teams, with Bittle coaching one and Jack coaching the other. Shitty refereed, which meant picking up and dusting off the kids who fell and sending the ones who got a little too rough to the lawn chair on the side.

After the first 10 minutes, Jack forgot that Bittle probably didn’t want him there. After the second 10 minutes, he forgot that he didn’t want to be there himself. For the last 10 minutes, he enjoyed the smiles on the kids’ faces, admired their effort at an unfamiliar game, basked in the applause of the parents who had wandered down to watch.

The game ended in a 7-7 tie, which Jack was pretty sure Shitty had worked hard to engineer. Normally, he wouldn’t like anyone throwing a competition one way or another (or to a tie), but for the kids’ first game, it was good. He and Bittle organized a handshake line, each of them bringing up the rear.

When they reached each other, Jack extended his hand and said, “I really didn’t mean to offend you.”

Bittle took the proffered hand and grinned. “You wouldn’t have said that if you’d ever had my pie. Try a slice. I dare you.”

That was how Jack found himself seated in the middle of the block party, turning red after making almost pornographic sounds when he bit into Bittle’s maple apple pie.

Bittle was kind of red himself, Jack noticed, when he said, “See? Pie is good. Not that all that protein hasn’t done wonders for you, but you’ve got to let yourself live a little, Mr. Zimmermann.”

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi on [Tumblr](https://justlookfrightened.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
